


Here Comes a Feeling You Thought You'd Forgotten

by raving_liberal



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Depression, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Future Fic, Gen, New Orleans, Post-Season/Series 01, Sabbaticals, Unexpected Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 11:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15072335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raving_liberal/pseuds/raving_liberal
Summary: Karen didn't start out counting the days since she'd last seen Frank Castle, because she's not that kind of woman... until she is. One "sabbatical" to New Orleans later, Karen thinks she might finally be putting all of that behind her. Fate has other plans.





	Here Comes a Feeling You Thought You'd Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Kastle Fic/Art Exchange gift for the-punishers-coming-for-you (who doesn't have an AO3 account) based on their [Kastle mood board of the same name](http://the-punishers-coming-for-you.tumblr.com/post/144617230955/here-comes-a-feeling-you-thought-youd-forgotten).
> 
> Edited by David of Oz <3

One thousand days without Frank Castle. 

Karen hadn’t started counting the days at first, because that’s not the kind of woman she is. First, she looked for Frank, and when that didn’t pan out, she waited to hear from him, and when that didn’t happen either, she made a choice to let him go. She noted the one year anniversary of the bombings— _The Bulletin_ devoted the front page to articles on the vacillating crime rate and changes to city-wide security measures—which meant she also noted the one year anniversary of the last time she’d seen Frank, but for the sake of her own somewhat tenuous mental health, she made a decision not to dwell. 

She didn’t dwell, or at least, not most days, though sometimes she fell off the not-dwelling wagon and hit a bottle of scotch on the way down. At some point, Karen sensed she must have crossed the two year marker since the last time she’d seen Frank. When she sat down to do the math, she realized she’d passed two years and then some. The slope from “some amount over two years” to tallying up the days was a slippery one, and she slid on down it into the weird “counting to one thousand” place in which she currently resided. 

Marci and Karen had once made a pact that they would only drunk-dial each other, and never Foggy (with the exception of Marci drunk-dialing for the occasional booty call), so on day nine hundred and ninety-nine, when Karen got utterly shitfaced after a long day at the office, she called Marci. 

Marci answered the phone with “What’s up, bitch?”

“So math is really stupid,” Karen said.

“Ohhh, it’s drunk o’clock,” Marci said. “Tell me all about that stupid, stupid math.”

Karen took another swig from her bottle of scotch. “Nine hundred and ninety-nine days. I counted.”

“Mmhmm. Since what? Since you got a good night’s sleep? When _was_ the last time you got a good night’s sleep, girl?” Marci asked. Karen scowled at the phone. Stupid Marci and her stupid “self-care.”

“I sleep _all the time_ ,” Karen said.

“That isn’t really any better. You get that, right? Are you sleeping all day?” Marci asked, managing to hit the balance between judgmental concern and practiced boredom. 

“No, I’m not sleeping all day!” Karen said. “I sleep fine. I sleep a normal amount, for a normal person with my job.”

“Foggy-bear went through a pretty dark patch a couple of months ago,” Marci continued, as though Karen hadn’t tried to clarify the sleep situation at all. “He took four whole days off work. Can you even imagine? _Four whole days!_ When I went to his apartment, it smelled like a college dorm in there. I don’t think he’d gotten out of bed for anything but the bathroom in days.”

“Oh god,” Karen said, putting her hand to her mouth.

“He hadn’t eaten, he hadn’t changed his clothes,” Marci said. “He was a mess until I got there and took care of him, the big baby.”

“But he’s okay now?” Karen asked. 

“He’s fine now. It was the Matty-versary,” Marci said in an undertone.

“Shit. I didn’t even realize it was that time of year again,” Karen said. “Now I feel guilty.”

“Girl, it is _not_ your fault. He was the love of Foggy’s life, not yours.”

Karen tried not to laugh, she really did, but a little snort of laughter escaped anyway. “You’re a very close second, though.”

Marci made a dismissive noise. “Not close enough, but that’s how it’s been for the entire time I’ve known him, so there’s not much I can do about it now. Foggy’s practically canonized him now. Poor Saint Matthew, Patron Saint of sad-sack lawyers who can’t get out of their beds for four days.”

“I can’t believe he’s been gone for three years,” Karen said.

“Ugh! You did _not_ call me for this,” Marci said. “Nine hundred and ninety-nine days doesn’t equal three years, so I know this call’s not about Matt. Nine hundred and ninety-nine days since what? Please tell me something interesting.”

“It’s not much better than the Matty-versary,” Karen admitted. 

“Girl, anything is better than the Matty-versary. Are you glued to your pillow with snot?”

“No.”

“Then you’re better than the Matty-versary.”

“It’s about Frank Castle. Is that really that much better than the Matty-versary?” Karen asked. 

“At least you have a thing for bad boys,” Marci said. “My boyfriend’s hung up on a _choir_ boy.”

 _Matt Murdock wasn’t a choir boy_ , Karen thought, but some still-sober wiser part of her just said, “Frank wasn’t bad. He was just damaged.”

“We have tragically different standards for bad,” Marci said.

“Yes, he killed people. Obviously, his methods were—”

“ _Methods_?” Marci said. “He shot forty people.”

 _He probably shot way more than forty_ , Karen thought, but kept that to herself, too. “Forty specific people. It wasn’t a random killing spree. Look, I’m not saying what he did was right—”

“You’re just saying it got you all hot and bothered. I can respect that,” Marci said. 

“It wasn’t like that,” Karen said.

“Hmm. I think it was kind of like that, Kare’,” Marci said. “Why else would you be drunk calling me to tell me it’s been nine hundred and ninety-nine days since you’ve seen him?”

Karen glanced at the little green numbers on the expensive coffee maker she splurged on for no good reason other than coffee made her feel nostalgic and strangely comforted. “It’s tomorrow. Now, I mean. That means I hit one thousand.”

“I thought you said you were over him, anyway,” Marci said.

“No, I said I was letting him go,” Karen corrected. 

“This doesn’t sound like letting him go, hon. This sounds like obsessing.”

“I haven’t been obsessing, though!” Karen said. “That’s the thing. I’ve been doing great. I’ve barely even thought about him.”

“Until you did,” Marci said, “and then you got super-drunk and called me.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Yeah, I think you are. I hate to hear you doing this to yourself. Drunken pining over some _guy_? We’re both better than that, Karen.”

Karen sighed. “I don’t know, Marci. I think maybe I’m not better than that.”

“Look, do you want my advice?” Marci paused long enough for Karen to not say no. “Go out on a date. Get laid. Get a therapist. Don’t let yourself get dragged back into that nonsense. Frank Castle was a menace, and you got away scot free!”

“I don’t know about that,” Karen said.

“Okay, so scot free except for some truly _epic_ PTSD and a cute little crush,” Marci said.

“I don’t have a crush on Frank!”

“What would you call it, then?”

“I’d call it… I don’t know what I call it. I care about him. I thought he would come back. I always thought that eventually he would come back,” Karen said.

“Aww, that's sad,” Marci said. “He’s probably dead, though.”

“Marci!”

“What? It’s the truth. He was involved in that whole shootout in the Park, wasn’t he? I heard they pulled a bunch of bodies out of there,” Marci said.

“I shouldn’t have called you,” Karen said, followed by another swig from her bottle. 

“Of course you should have,” Marci said. “You need somebody with some common sense in your life. Look, you got over this guy! Don’t let some bullshit anniversary drag you down into the pits of snot and self-pity.”

“Like Foggy?”

“Exactly like Foggy,” Marci said. “You know I love him and all that, but that’s just pathetic. We don’t cry in our beds like Foggy, Karen. We are strong women with pride in ourselves and better things to do with our time.”

“I’m not thinking about Frank on purpose, Marci,” Karen said. 

“Tell me you’re at least drinking the good stuff,” Marci said. 

“It’s a step above swill.”

Marci sighed like someone long-pained, and Karen pictured the way she pinched the bridge of her nose when she was particularly frustrated. “How big a step?”

“Not a very big step,” Karen admitted. 

“This whole conversation is making me feel like crying,” Marci said, “and also reminding me that I need to get an updated tetanus shot.”

“How often am I supposed to get those?” Karen said, more musing to herself than actually asking Marci. “I can’t remember when I got one last? How fast do they wear off?” She gasped a little. “Oh my _god_ , Marci, do you know how often I touch rusty nails? I think I touch them way more often than average. What’s the average amount of rusty nails to touch?”

“Ohhhkay, somebody needs to put herself to bed,” Marci said

“I’m just really concerned about the rusty nails now!”

“I know you are, hon, and while that’s adorable and all, it also means it’s last call. Closing time,” Marci said.

“I don’t have to go home, but I can’t stay here,” Karen intoned somberly. 

“Uhh, I think you do have to stay there, babe. That’s your apartment.”

“Oh. Oh, right!”

“Do us both a huge favor, okay? When I hang up, you screw the lid back on your swill and you go drink a nice, big glass of water, then put yourself to bed,” Marci said.

“A thousand days,” Karen said.

“I know, but we’ve changed the subject now, right?”

Karen sighed. “Right.”

“I’m hanging up now, so you go do what I told you to,” Marci said.

“Aye aye, captain,” Karen said.

Marci said, “Oh good lord,” and hung up. 

Karen took one more good swig from her bottle before popping the stopper back in—it didn’t actually have a screw top—and standing up. The room swam, but she muscled through it and made her way to the kitchen without running into anything. She poured herself a glass of water, drank it as directed, and then put herself to bed.

The hangover she woke up with the following morning was epic, but she also felt a renewed sense of clarity and purpose. Yes, she let Frank go, and yes, she reneged on that, but this was a newer, soberer day. Maybe, she thought, what she really needed was to get out of the city for a while. A sabbatical. She could tell Ellison she needed a sabbatical. He would argue, but eventually she’d wear him down like about eighty percent of _always_. She might even find a journalistic angle to pursue, turn it into a research trip. 

Maybe she would go south. She was tired of feeling cold.

***

One thousand and forty-two days without Frank Castle.

Karen was so tired of rain. She’d come to New Orleans for the promise of exotic, crushing heat, and instead had found herself in the middle of an unbroken three-week stretch of pouring rain. Even when the sky took brief gasps between downpours, Karen couldn’t get her clothes dry due to the thick blanket of humidity. Every pair of shoes she owned was soaked through. Her nice jacket, hung on the hook by the front door the first day she arrived in New Orleans and never moved again, smelled vaguely of mildew. Everything she owned smelled at least moderately of mildew, actually. She’d already acquired two dozen strings of Mardi Gras beads from various restaurants and tourists spots, now strung from every available surface in her apartment, the novelty worn off. At least the food was good.

Yes, convincing Ellison had taken some work, but she _was_ in New Orleans for a story, an exposé on a new Roxxon subsidiary that turned out to be a shell company for Roxxon Gulf, the owners of the oil rig that exploded off the Louisiana coast when Karen was still in high school. Roxxon Gulf lost a significant lawsuit relating to the accident just over a year ago and filed bankruptcy, but there they were. Same employees, same business practices, same equipment, new name. That a pair of vigilante heroes claimed the explosion was responsible for their powers was only tangential to the actual story, and Karen resisted the urge to try to track them down for interviews. 

Karen loved her duplex on Dumaine Street, loved the bright red door and how it stood out against the French blue walls and steps, loved the tiny fireplace that served no practical function in 90 degree weather, and loved even more that every month of subletting her apartment in Hell’s Kitchen paid for two months in the duplex. She also loved that Clover Grill was within close walking distance, and that she could eat a burger or a biscuit or an omelette with grits and toast at any hour of the day or night, served with a strong cup of Community coffee, the only brand of coffee anyone seemed to serve in the entire state of Louisiana. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she went to Clover Grill and drank coffee and thought about everything in her life that led her up to this point.

Sometimes, in her damp shoes and sundresses, shivering in Clover Grill’s aggressive air conditioning, Karen felt herself going numb. She imagined her skin paling and hardening until she resembled the marble angel statues peppering the cemeteries of New Orleans. She loved and envied those angels, their features worn soft by time and weather. Karen still felt so sharp at the edges. Time never smoothed anything for her.

When coffee and biscuits didn’t do the trick, Karen fell back on her old standby: a bottle of cheap whiskey. She usually remembered New Orleans was in Central Time, but not always, and Marci groaned and bitched and threatened her way through what anyone would call a sportingly fair number of calls before she started switching on “do not disturb” mode at night. Karen wouldn’t exactly say she missed Marci, but she missed the verbal ass-kicking and the reminders that she really ought to have some dignity, and what was she even doing in New Orleans, did she _want_ to get sucked up into a hurricane as some kind of weird form of punishment?

“I’m not even lonely,” Karen confessed to her mirror one night, without anyone else to talk to. “I’m not anything. That’s the problem.”

Her reflection offered neither answers nor solace, so Karen drank until she couldn’t stand her own maudlin internal narrative, and it drove her out of her little blue duplex and into the wet streets of New Orleans. Lamplight flickered in puddles and in the windows of cars lining the streets. After only a block, Karen’s dress was soaked through and her long hair plastered itself to her bare arms. She kept walking anyway. Block after block, rain pelting her face, Karen walked through New Orleans. She skirted St. Louis No. 2, looped around, and somehow ended up at Clover despite having started out headed in the opposite direction.

“Fine,” Karen said. “Coffee it is.”

***

One thousand, one hundred and seventeen days without Frank Castle, and it had been so long now that she only kept track out of habit. She should already be headed back to New York, but instead she strolled down Bourbon Street with her umbrella perched on her shoulder. The last couple of weeks had been dry, for New Orleans at least, but then a tropical storm in the Gulf pushed rain into the city again, and Karen started carrying her umbrella whenever she left her duplex. She wore her hair up more often than not, since the battle against the humidity wasn’t one she would win anytime soon. Sometimes she braided it in a coronet around her head; it reminded her of the marble angels.

When she entered Clover Diner, she nodded at Francis before taking her usual seat at the counter. He placed a cup of coffee in front of her before she could really settle herself. She let out an audible sigh of relief as she picked up the cup.

“Cheese omelette, side of grits?” Francis asked.

“Please. Oh, and extra butter for the grits.”

“We livin’ dangerous today,” Francis said, giving Karen a wink. She smiled back at him and turned her attention to her phone, drinking her black coffee and skimming her news feed for any noteworthy headlines. While she read an article on WaPo about the unfolding economic crisis in Bangladesh, an email notification popped up. Ellison again. Eventually Karen would have to give him a straight answer as to when she planned to return to New York, if at all, but not before breakfast and at least two cups of coffee. Why rush? New York may be a fast city, but New Orleans wasn’t, and Karen had almost forgotten how to rush.

Karen didn’t pay much attention to the man who sat next to her at the counter, engrossed in her reading as she was, but when she heard his voice she almost dropped her phone into her coffee.

“Coffee. Black.” He had a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, dark hair sticking out from under it and curling over his ears, long enough to brush his collar. His beard looked neater this time, like he invested some amount of effort in maintaining it. His hands rested on the counter, large and calloused, somehow rougher and more worn than the last time she had seen him. 

“ _Frank?_ ” she asked aloud before she could stop herself. If she had had time to entertain a fantasy that he had somehow found her, that he had even looked for her, it would have been dashed by the look of surprise on Frank’s face.

“Karen?” Frank said. “What— How? How are you here? How did you find me?”

“I didn’t,” Karen said. “I live here, more or less. My old boss in New York would prefer less, but my bank account says more.”

“But why? Why are you here?” 

Karen shrugged. “I wanted to try someplace warm, and I found a story here, so I followed it. What about you? What are you doing in New Orleans, of all places!” 

Frank looked a little sheepish. “Got some work on one of the rigs off the coast. Storm pushed most of us in.”

“So this is just an incredibly bizarre coincidence?”

“Yeah. Seems like it must be.”

“Or fate, I suppose,” Karen said, not expecting Frank to bite.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe, yeah?”

Francis put a cup of coffee in front of Frank and topped off Karen’s cup, and for lack of a better way to handle the situation, both of them briefly turned their attention down to their coffee. They sat side by side in silence, the determined blast of Clover’s air conditioning providing white noise. Karen shivered slightly, skin prickling into goosebumps, as a chilled drop of rain fell from her hair onto her neck, rolling down her spine into the back of her dress. 

Frank laughed softly, a rusty-sounding laugh, like maybe he hadn’t used it in a while. “Figures you’d come all the way to Louisiana looking for warm weather and still end up cold.”

Karen’s answering snort of laughter wasn’t that much more practiced. “Figures I’d come all the way to Louisiana and still end up drinking coffee with Frank Castle.”

“’S good coffee,” Frank said, like some sort of excuse.

“It’s Community,” Karen said, because that’s what people who live in Louisiana do, proselytize about the coffee.

“I’m just glad it’s not the chicory kind, yeah? Been down here two years, still can’t get used to the stuff.” Frank took another sip of his coffee by way of illustrating his point, or so Karen supposed.

“Acquired taste,” Karen said.

Frank nodded. “So… what’re you doing these days? You got work down here?”

“Is this you making small talk?” Karen asked.

“I guess it is,” Frank admitted.

“You aren’t very good at it.”

“Doesn’t seem like you are, either.”

Karen made a noncommittal noise and took a sip of her own coffee before replying. “I might have forgotten how to be a person, just a little.”

“Happens faster than you’d think, don’t it?” Frank said.

“It’s probably some kind of survival mechanism to keep us from losing our minds from loneliness,” Karen said. When she noticed Frank’s brow furrowing, she quickly added, “But yes, I have work. I do some freelancing for the _Times-Picayune_ , and Ellison still sends me the occasional assignment I can handle long distance. He wants me back in the office, but I’m not ready to come off sabbatical yet.”

“Sabbatical,” Frank said disdainfully. “That what you’re calling it?”

“Fine. Vacation. Change of scenery. Whatever.” Karen frowned down at her omelette, which Francis had apparently managed to slip in front of her without her noticing.

“Sounds a lot like hiding out,” Frank said.

“Oh, that is some utter bullshit, coming from a man who completely dropped off the radar for years!” Karen said. “Not a word. Not a call or a postcard.”

“I was trying to stay out of your way,” Frank said. “Brought too much mess into your life too many times.”

Karen exhaled loudly in frustration. “I bring mess into my life just fine on my own. I’m a journalist, Frank. Are you really that egotistical that—”

Frank interrupted with, “Hey, that’s—”

“I am not finished!” Karen said loudly. She could see Francis and the handful of other Clover patrons giving her concerned looks. “ _That_ egotistical that you think my life requires _you_ to be messy? I don’t sit around waiting to get kidnapped and then rescued! I go looking for trouble, and I am damn good at finding it, and I get myself home in one piece after, and if there’s mess in my life, it’s because I want it there. I put it there! I invited it! I am strong, Frank, and I’m not waiting for _you_.”

Frank—along with everyone else in Clover—looked stunned. Marci would be proud. Karen pulled a wad of bills out of her wallet, slapped it onto the counter between her and Frank, and stormed out of the diner and into the rain. She made it half a block from Clover before realizing she’d left her umbrella behind, and by then, her clothes and hair were already a sodden mess.

“Goddammit!” Karen shouted up at the rain, which responded by falling on her face even harder. She continued walking, since going back for the umbrella at this point would only spoil her dramatic exit, and was almost back at her duplex when she heard the slosh-thump of someone running after her down the wet sidewalk.

“Karen,” Frank said. Karen turned and looked at him, and he held up his left hand, her umbrella clutched in it, still closed. She took it, using the excuse of opening the umbrella to look away from Frank.

“Thanks,” she said. When Frank said nothing in response, she spun back towards the direction of her duplex and began walking again. She didn’t get far before she felt Frank’s hand on her wrist, stopping her. “Hey!”

“Karen,” Frank repeated, pulling her around to face him. 

“What do you want, Frank?” Karen asked. “What could you possibly want from me?”

Frank stared at her without releasing her wrist. “What happened to you?”

“What— what _happened_?” Karen asked, incredulous. “Frank, you were _there_. You know what happened. Matt happened. Lewis happened. _You_ happened.”

“Why are you down here? Why are you living down here, away from everybody you know?”

“I don’t need them,” Karen said.

“You need somebody,” Frank said.

“I don’t need _anybody_ ,” Karen said stubbornly. “I’m fine alone, Frank. Why would I need anybody? I’m made out of goddamn marble.”

“Karen,” Frank said again, more softly this time. His hand slid from her wrist to her hand, holding it loosely, more a touch of fingertips than anything else. The rain fell harder, pelting their faces and shoulders, and Karen felt something shake loose inside her, something she wasn’t even sure was there anymore. 

“I’m so angry at you,” she said loudly. “I’m so incredibly angry, Frank.”

“I know,” Frank said. He stepped a little closer.

“I have a right to be angry with you,” Karen said.

“You do,” Frank agreed. “You’ve got every right.”

“I thought you would come for me. I thought you would at least contact me, but you didn’t,” Karen said. “You disappeared. I thought you were dead. I had to keep on living my life not knowing what happened to you.”

Frank stepped closer. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Karen asked, her voice pitching upward into shrillness. “It’s been one thousand, one hundred and seventeen days, Frank! You think that bringing me my umbrella makes up for that?”

“I thought it was better for you if I left.”

“Well, that was _stupid_ , Frank. You’re an idiot, a stupid idiot,” Karen said. Frank moved a little closer, and Karen let him, let him crowd into her personal space as she glowered at him. 

“I know. I was wrong,” Frank said. He was so closer that Karen could smell him, the salt water and oil smell of him, the clean sweat and cheap aftershave on his skin.

“You know, I came down here to be warm and forget how to be a person, and you’re really ruining both of those for me right now,” Karen said in exasperation. 

“Because you’re made out of marble,” Frank said.

“I am,” Karen said.

“You don’t feel anything anymore, yeah?” Frank asked.

“I don’t,” Karen said. “I just live my life.”

“So it’d probably screw things up for you if I kissed you now, wouldn’t it?” Frank asked.

“Well, you know what, Frank, it wouldn’t—”

Frank cut her off with a kiss, his arms wrapping around her waist and holding her close. Karen’s umbrella dropped to the sidewalk with a wet thud. Frank’s lips were rough, but they were warm, and Karen finally felt the heat she’d been looking for since she came to New Orleans. The rain fell on the both of them, soaking them through to their skin, and Karen still felt warm. She felt alive.

When Frank let go of her, Karen struck him once on the chest with a closed fist. “You asshole,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said again.

“I didn’t even get to eat my omelette!” 

Frank smiled at Karen, a little shaky, but real. There. “We can go back. I’ll buy you another one.”

Karen did her best to scowl at him, but it kept turning into a smile, tropical storm be damned. “And a fresh cup of coffee.”

“Yeah,” Frank agreed.

“And a slice of pie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Karen sighed as she leaned over to pick up her umbrella. “I’m not sure how I feel about having to learn to be a person again, you know.”

Frank smiled, shrugging. “We can figure it out together. You’re on sabbatical, right?” Karen nodded. “Then that means there’s no rush.”

“New Orleans is a terrible place to rush,” Karen agreed. 

They didn’t rush, but eventually, they got there anyway.


End file.
